All at once the screen which had recorded such vivid images to her mind’s eye went blank; and her physical eye, released, roamed wildly about the room. It rested on the book she was still holding. ‘She cannot possess or haunt the corpse,’ she read, ‘after it has received Christian Buriall.’ Here was a ray of comfort. But (her fears warned her) being a suicide she might not be allowed Christian burial. How then? Instead of the churchyard she saw a cross-roads, with a slanting signpost on which the words could no longer be read; only two or three people were there; they kept looking furtively about them and the grave-digger had thrown his spade aside and was holding a stake. . . .

She pulled herself together with a jerk. ‘These are all fancies,’ she thought. ‘It wasn’t fancy when I signed the poison book.’ She took up the little glass cylinder; there were eighteen tablets and the dose was one or two. Daylight was broadening apace; she must hurry. She took some notepaper and wrote for five minutes. She had reached the words ‘No one is to blame’ when suddenly her ears were assailed by a tremendous tearing, whirring sound: it grew louder and louder until the whole room vibrated. In the midst of the deafening din something flashed past the window, for a fraction of a second blotting out the daylight. Then there was a crash such as she had never heard in her life.

All else forgotten, Maggie ran to the window. An indescribable scene of wreckage met her eyes. The aeroplane had been travelling at a terrific pace: it was smashed to atoms. To right and left the lawn was littered with fragments, some of which had made great gashes in the grass, exposing the earth. The pilot had been flung clear; she could just see his legs sticking out from a flower-bed under the wall of the house. They did not move and she thought he must be dead.

While she was wondering what to do she heard voices underneath the window.

‘We don’t seem to be very lucky here just now, Rundle,’ said Mr. Ampleforth.

‘No, sir.’

There was a pause. Then Mr. Ampleforth spoke again.

‘He’s still breathing, I think.’

‘Yes, sir, he is, just.’

‘You take his head and I’ll take his feet, and we’ll get him into the house.’

Something began to stir in Maggie’s mind. Rundle replied:

‘If you’ll pardon my saying so, sir, I don’t think we ought to move him. I was told once by a doctor that if a man’s had a fall or anything it’s best to leave him lying.’

‘I don’t think it’ll matter if we’re careful.’

‘Really, sir, if you’ll take my advice——’

There was a note of obstinacy in Rundle’s voice. Maggie, almost beside herself with agitation, longed to fling open the window and cry ‘Bring him in! Bring him in!’ But her hand seemed paralysed and her throat could not form the words.

Presently Mr. Ampleforth said:

‘You know we can’t let him stay here. It’s beginning to rain.’

(Bring him in! Bring him in!)

‘Well, sir, it’s your responsibility . . .’

Maggie’s heart almost stopped beating.

‘Naturally I don’t want to do anything to hurt the poor chap.’

(Oh, bring him in! Bring him in!)

The rain began to patter on the pane.

‘Look here, Rundle, we must get him under cover.’

‘I’ll fetch that bit of wing, sir, and put over him.’

(Bring him in! Bring him in!)

Maggie heard Rundle pulling something that grated on the gravel path. The sound ceased and Mr. Ampleforth said:

‘The very thing for a stretcher, Rundle! The earth’s so soft, we can slide it under him. Careful, careful!’ Both men were breathing hard. ‘Have you got your end? Right.’ Their heavy, measured footfalls grew fainter and fainter.

The next thing Maggie heard was the motor-car returning with the doctor. Not daring to go out, and unable to sit down, she stood, how long she did not know, holding her bedroom door ajar. At last she saw the nurse coming towards her.

‘The patient’s a little better, Miss Winthrop. The doctor thinks he’ll pull through now.’

‘Which patient?’

‘Oh, there was never any hope for the other poor fellow.’

Maggie closed her eyes.

‘Can I see Antony?’ she said at last.

‘Well, you may just peep at him.’

Antony smiled at her feebly from the bed.

THE COTILLON

‘But,’ protested Marion Lane, ‘you don’t mean that we’ve all got to dance the cotillon in masks? Won’t that be terribly hot?’

‘My dear,’ Jane Manning, her friend and hostess, reminded her, ‘this is December, not July. Look!’ She pointed to the window, their only protection against a soft bombardment of snowflakes.

Marion moved across from the fireplace where they were sitting and looked out. The seasonable snow had just begun to fall, as though in confirmation of Mrs. Manning’s words. Here and there the gravel still showed black under its powdery coating, and on the wing of the house which faced east the shiny foliage of the magnolia, pitted with pockets of snow, seemed nearly black too. The trees of the park which yesterday, when Marion arrived, were so distinct against the afternoon sky that you could see their twigs, were almost invisible now, agitated shapes dim in the slanting snow. She turned back to the room.

‘I think the cotillon’s a good idea, and I don’t want to make difficulties,’ she said. ‘I’m not an obstructionist by nature, am I? Tell me if I am.’

‘My dear, of course you’re not.’

‘Well, I was thinking, wouldn’t half the fun of the cotillon be gone if you didn’t know who was who? I mean, in those figures when the women powder the men’s faces, and rub their reflections off the looking-glass, and so on. There doesn’t seem much point in powdering a mask.’

‘My darling Marion, the mask’s only a bit of black silk that covers the top part of one’s face; you don’t imagine we shan’t recognize each other?’

‘You may,’ said Marion, ‘find it difficult to recognize the largest, barest face. I often cut my best friends in the street. They needn’t put on a disguise for me not to know them.’

‘But you can tell them by their voices.’

‘Supposing they won’t speak?’

‘Then you must ask questions.’

‘But I shan’t know half the people here.’

‘You’ll know all of us in the house,’ her friend said; ‘that’s sixteen to start with. And you know the Grays and the Fosters and the Boltons. We shall only be about eighty, if as many.’

‘Counting gate-crashers?’

‘There won’t be any.’

‘But how will you be able to tell, if they wear masks?’

‘I shall know the exact numbers, for one thing, and for another, at midnight, when the cotillon stops, everyone can take their masks off—must, in fact.’

‘I see.’

The room was suddenly filled with light. A servant had come in to draw the curtains. They sat in silence until he had finished the last of the windows; there were five of them in a row.

‘I had forgotten how long this room was,’ Marion said. ‘You’ll have the cotillon here, I suppose?’

‘It’s the only possible place. I wish it were a little longer, then we could have a cushion race. But I’m afraid we shall have to forgo that. It would be over as soon as it began.’

The servant arranged the tea-table in front of them and went away.

‘Darling,’ said Jane suddenly, ‘before Jack comes in from shooting with his tired but noisy friends, I want to say what a joy it is to have you here. I’m glad the others aren’t coming till Christmas Eve. You’ll have time to tell me all about yourself.’

‘Myself?’ repeated Marion. She stirred in her chair. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘Dearest, I can’t believe it! There must be, after all these months. My life is dull, you know—no, not dull, quiet. And yours is always so mouvementée.’

‘It used to be,’ admitted Marion. ‘It used to be; but now I——’

There was a sound of footsteps and laughter at the door, and a voice cried ‘Jenny, Jenny, have you some tea for us?’